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| Meditations on Discontent |
| 04.30.04 (10:59 am) [edit] |
[i]When I began college four years ago, I never imagined I’d find best friends like the ones I had in high school. I had been lucky, I thought, and luck rarely follows through. [/i]
I met James and Mike at an orientation for student athletes the day before classes began. Like me, they were wrestlers. Yet unlike me, they had been accepted to college on academic merit alone. And it showed. Their wit and intelligence was aggressive, uncompromising, and much more than anything I could hope for. Yet for them, it didn't matter. There was something special about us, the three of us.
They imagined, like I did, that our overwhelming drives for success had brought us together…despite our slightly different orientations towards life.
James was a methodical thinker. He never acted before considering any and all possibilities. And as long as he stayed away from emotional issues, he was usually right. Mike, contrastingly, was moved by inspiration, both philosophical and other. He would ponder and toil, as artists usually do, until it all made sense. And when it did, he would finish the poem, make the contribution to science, or act on his primordial instincts.
So where did I fit in? Well, whereas James and Mike took different paths to arrive at relatively concrete truths (so it seemed), I never seemed to get it right. I worked methodically, like James, but it didn’t help. I was moved by inspiration, like Mike, but nothing ever made much sense. Yet people still listened to me, and even believed in me, though often they weren’t quite sure why. "With your pretty sounding faulty logic, you'll be a billionaire," James used to say.
And that was the plan. I'd make billions in business, Mike would use a lump of that money to find a cure for aids, and James would bail me out of the legal troubles that I would inevitably face.
Of course, things rarely work out the way they are supposed to, or the way we imagine they will.
I'm still trying to figure out when and why we fell apart. Did they take it personally when I decided to quit the wrestling team after tearing cartilage in both knees? Or was it something else? The side effects of the medication maybe? Could they not understand what I was going through? Is that when they started to drift farther away from me? Or was I drifting farther from them? ... Or what about the deal with Natalie? I had cried on Mike’s shoulder when she slept with two of my good friends a week after we had broken up. And then he slept with her a day later. And he couldn’t understand my devastation. "Guys need to get off. Girls help them. It's nothing personal," he had said. Was that it? I remember feeling broken. Yes, that must have been the beginning. But what about James? He hadn't slept with her.
And, of course, my search for an answer, a reason, a beginning... it's a meaningless search. Life, as you know, is not a subjective narrative. All stories will fail to tell you why things are the way they are because stories, by nature, have limitations. There are always too many missing variables.
So reality will forever be distorted by memory, nostalgia, and fiction… and unadulterated facts and immutable truths will forever be relegated to fantasy. Or if they're real, they exist only within us in a world no one else can see, let alone understand. And so we dance. Because there is tension. And we need to recognize that tension, embrace it, and let go of it.
It's been about two years since we fell. James and Mike studied abroad at Oxford, and I stayed on campus and wrestled. The blue in their veins got bluer, and the layers of my skin got tougher. When they returned, we imagined things would be the way they were. Or rather, we imagined things would be the way we chose to remember them. Just perfect. But things predictably weren’t that way. James and Mike had changed and so had I.
James was eventually accepted to each of the top ten law schools. Mike was named a Rhodes scholar. They were well on the way to the success we had once imagined for ourselves. Yet what had happened to me? “You’re floundering,” Mike said recently. “Get it together.”
I had told him that I didn't want to be a businessman and I didn’t even want to make billions anymore. I just wanted to write.
We went out drinking last night. Actually, they took me out drinking. We don't have much to talk about anymore, so we just toasted to rounds of tequila like we had done four years before.
"To art, to poverty, to Greg," James said before we downed the first round. "To a lost cause that I never really saw coming," Mike said before we downed the second round. They were joking, I knew, but it still hurt. "To friendship," I said before we downed the third round.
We stuck to beer after that.
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| Angela |
| 04.29.04 (10:14 am) [edit] |
Angela is a waitress at a hole-in-the-wall bar in West Hollywood, and she feels out-of-sync. The city is so big and she is so small. Her arms dangle, her hips are diminutive, and her breasts aren’t quite developed. She hasn’t grown into her body, and she knows it. But she doesn’t mind because she wants to be a star.
She is from a midwestern town with a population of five hundred and twenty-three. Her high school theatre teacher, who was also her english and history teacher, said she had a chance to make it big. But how could he know; he had never traveled outside the state.
She believed him anyway. So she quit high school and traveled to Hollywood. She doesn’t have any money or family here, and she’s only seventeen, but her morale is high. All great actresses begin their careers as waitresses, she’s heard.
And though she hasn’t yet been to an audition, and she doesn’t even know what headshots are, she is brimming with a confidence unusual for a girl of her age and demeanor. Despite this confidence, she is not a good waitress.
She is clumsy. She can’t even balance a serving tray with one hand. And already today, she has spilled champagne on a customer and hot mustard sauce on another. And when the cooks or customers look at her in ‘that way’, she doesn’t quite know what to do. She is shy and doesn’t understand the power of her beauty.
A boy at the bar is calling for her. He is holding a beer and smiling innocently. “What’s your name?” he asks. His voice is youthful. She is not frightened. He can’t be much older than twenty-one or twenty-two, she thinks.
“Angela,” she says.
“That’s a pretty name,” he replies. She smells alcohol on his breath and wonders if he is drunk. “I think you’re very pretty, Justina. Do you think, maybe, you’d go on a date with me sometime?” His eyes are deep and dark brown. There is something fascinating about him, she thinks.
“I don’t know,” she says. He lowers his eyes to the ground.
“Angela, my mother says that to get a date with a girl as pretty as you, I have to act like someone that I’m not. She says I should forget to shave for a few days and act like nothing matters. But I can’t do it. It’s not me. It does matter. There’s something about you.”
She smiled. She wondered what that something could be. But she didn’t want to think about it too much, because she feared she might lose it. So she blushed. “Just do what you’re doing,” she said. “You’re doing fine.” And she walked away.
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| World Hunger |
| 04.28.04 (10:23 am) [edit] |
A couple sits alone in the far corner of the hotel dining room. At a glance, they seem rather ordinary. She is pallid and skinny, and wears a modest flower-pleated dress. He is scruffy and long, and wears black slacks and a polo shirt. They don’t talk too loudly or too softly, and they don’t even touch each other. At least, not visibly. Yet the patrons, waiters, and waitresses can’t help but stare. There’s something about that couple, everyone thinks.
Yet they don’t know what it is. The man with the top hat at the table next to them imagines it’s the way they look at each other. “They know something that we don’t,” he says to his wife. She disagrees. “It’s in their lips; their smiles tell the story of love,” she says. And she thinks about her own smile. But the man with top hat doesn’t agree. They aren’t even smiling, he notices. But he is afraid to tell his wife.
And the waiter that once loved, the one that stands idly at attention ready to take the couple’s order, but is afraid to interrupt, has his own theory. “It’s the calm before the storm,” he says to nobody in particular. And he thinks about his own storm.
And the couple, oblivious to all that surrounds them, tries to solve the problem of world hunger.
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| Johnny Dolan |
| 04.27.04 (1:39 pm) [edit] |
Johnny Dolan struts into the hotel dining room with a scantily clad girl hanging on each of his arms. He wears brown cowboy boots, black leather pants, a muscle shirt, and a sparkling beige cowboy hat. The dining room patrons cannot help but stare.
He enjoys the attention; he walks the scantily clad girls to a table overlooking the ‘strip’; he seats the girls first; he bows for apparently no reason. He must be important, the restaurant patrons think. But they’ve never seen him before.
A waiter walks over to Johnny’s table. “You can’t sit here,” the waiter says. “This table is reserved for Paul Newman.”
“Who?” Johnny asks.
“Paul Newman.” Johnny looks queerly at the waiter. “The actor,” the waiter says. “You can’t sit here.”
“Who are you?” Johnny asks. “If you aren’t an owner or something, I don’t want to speak with you.”
“Who are you?” the waiter asks.
“Johnny Dolan.”
“Who?” The restaurant is silent. Who the heck is Johnny Dolan, everyone wonders.
“Johnny Dolan,” one of the scantily clad girls says. She smiles. “Everyone knows Johnny Dolan... right?”
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| my writing is taking me where it will, i guess |
| 04.27.04 (1:28 pm) [edit] |
A stout little man enters the hotel dining room. He wears a faded blue blazer, an outdated collared shirt, dark blue jeans, and bright red converse tennis shoes. And his clothing isn’t the saddest thing about him. He holds a single flower destined for nobody. It’s a daffodil, he thinks. And as his eyes dart around the room, it is evident that he can’t find whatever it is that he is looking for.
He motions to a waiter. But the waiter doesn’t seem to see him. So he hesitates, takes a step towards the waiter, and says, “uh um… excuse me.” But his voice is too frail. Or the waiter pretends not to hear him.
His hands twitch, his feet shake, and he wonders if this was such a good idea after all. She’ll never show up, he thinks. And he’s probably right. She’s a beautiful girl. Or at least, she’s better looking than he is.
He caresses the dying orange-pedaled flower in his hand. “If only it were a rose,” he thinks. And as he imagines what could have been or maybe what should have been, a girl walks through the hotel lobby. It’s her! He takes a step forward and holds his breath. But she passes without even a glance. And he wonders what it’s all supposed to mean.
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| Insanity |
| 04.26.04 (11:23 am) [edit] |
(Again, I'm sorry for not continuing with the story. This is just some rambling)
[i]The definition of insanity, they say, is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.[/i]
I want beauty. Perfect beauty. I know that’s impossible (especially for me), but I want it anyway.
I want to fall in love with her. But mostly I want her to fall in love with me. I want to live the rest of my life with her. But mostly I want her to want to live the rest of her life with me. I want to be a great husband, a great father, and a great philosopher. But mostly I want her to want me to be all of those things.
Does your heart go pitter-patter when you see her? Because mine does. And if yours doesn’t, why doesn’t it? Do you not imagine that she’s the one…? Oh, that’s unimaginable to me. Because the world would be unbearably heavy without her.
She’s not just one girl, of course. She’s the girl that inspires me to think, feel, and be the things in life that matter most. And sometimes I know her well. But usually I don’t know her at all. And I don’t mind because names aren’t important. It’s the feeling that matters. And if that feeling is strong enough, then I’ll probably ask for her name anyway. “There’s something special about you,” I’ll tell her. “I’m not quite sure what it is, but…”
And if she isn’t too surprised or turned off, then I’ll ask her to coffee or a walk. And I won’t be surprised if she says no. People don’t trust other people these days, I think. So if she says no, I’ll wonder what could have, should have, or would have been, but I won’t be too hard on myself. But if she says yes, I will be happy. I will take her out to coffee or on a walk, and we will talk about life and love and other similarly abstract ideas and ideals.
And no matter how much she resembles the last one—I tend to pick the same girl over and over again—she will be different somehow, better. Yet I won’t be able to communicate the difference. I’ll try using words and lyri cs, but I will predictably fail. “It’s beyond me,” I’ll probably say to myself.
And if I’m lucky—it’s been awhile—she’ll write back to me afterwards. She’ll say that she had a wonderful time, and that what she likes most about me is that I’m ‘real’, so to speak. And I’ll wonder what real means. But I won’t let my regressive thoughts get in the way of the progression of life. I’ll tell her that she seems ‘real’ too. And she’ll say something like, “Though I have a boyfriend, I still want to get to know you better.” And I’ll laugh and smile innocently and tell her something like, “You can always trust my intentions.” And I will be lying, of course, but at least I’ll be ‘real’.
And the next time we go out for coffee or maybe walk through a cemetery, I will tell her that Ann Rand is terrible and Milan Kundera is beautiful. And then later on, as we sip our lattes or read the headstones, I will ask, “Would it be the worst thing in the world if I kiss you right now?” And she won’t refuse me. She never has. And as we kiss, fireworks will explode and shooting stars will fly farther than ever before.
But the sun will have already been setting. And it won’t matter whether we are in the coffee shop or the cemetery, or whether it’s night or day, because this sun isn’t ‘real’; it sets after that first kiss. Like clockwork.
I’ll imagine she’s in love, and that’s enough. Because I once loved. I mean, I really loved. And it was beautiful. Perfectly beautiful. And that won’t ever happen again.
And when she is gone, I’ll start looking for her once more.
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| Grinders |
| 04.18.04 (11:03 am) [edit] |
I was certain that Chad would eventually kill me. And I figured he’d do it late at night because, well, he was too busy during the day. So when I was ten, I started saying my prayers before falling asleep. I asked god to forgive me, and to help me, and if not me, then at least them.
I knew that I didn’t [i]really[/i] need God’s help. I could have helped myself. For instance, I could have apologized and promised not to do it again (whatever it was)… or I could have even eaten the steak. But for me, there wasn’t ever really a choice. I had to protect them and I had to protect myself. And that meant I had to fight. Dad taught me to fight, I think.
He didn’t believe in violent or capricious authority. He imagined, even before he knew about Chad’s abusive tendencies, that all human beings were smothered against their will by illegitimate power of one kind or another. “That’s why you have to fight,” he’d say. “Because if you don’t stand for what you believe in, nobody else will.”
I understood. If I hid from Chad, listened to the names he called me, or lowered my head when he hit me, I would forever be afraid of him and the world. And I didn’t want to be afraid. Anything was better than fear. I was sure of that. So I took Dad’s advice. “"Confront, outwit, and ridicule people like him whenever possible,” he’d say.
David didn’t see it that way. He lowered his head when Chad screamed. He looked into Chad’s eyes when Chad told him not to lower his head. He went to his room when it was over. And he cried. “But at least he doesn’t hit me,” he used to tell me.
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After Dad and Caron separated, we moved into a small ranch-style house just outside of Santa Monica. The ‘good’ neighborhood was just up the street, and the ‘bad’ neighborhood was just down the street. We lived somewhere in between. I usually felt safe and scared simultaneously… and I had good reason.
Two gang-members accosted me when I was nine. They shoved me against a wall and took two dollars and thirty-seven cents from my pocket. Soon after that, our house was robbed for the first time. Over the next ten months, we suffered five more break-ins. They stopped soon after the riots… when the National Guard stationed itself just a down the street.
Yet though danger always seemed to be lurking, I felt safe. I even felt… at home. “It makes sense,” Dad says now. “[i]He[/i] couldn’t get to you.” But I don’t think that was it. In my eyes, it had more to do with our regular dinners at the family restaurant just down street.
We started going there because it was easy. Dad didn’t have to cook food and David and I didn’t have to starve because we refused to eat it. We continued going there because Dad liked the tuna sandwiches, and because he likes to stick with things that work.
So Grinders (the name of the restaurant) became my home away from home. I looked forward to sitting with David and Dad at the corner table with wobbly legs. There was something magical about that table, I used to think, that pushed Dad and I to imagine even the most unimaginable possibilities for my life.
Our heads were always stuck in the clouds there. On some nights, I was the best president ever, on other nights I was the best dancer, and on still other nights, I was the best rabbi. And Dad and I couldn’t figure out why David didn’t want the same things. And as we continued to drift upwards and past the clouds, David’s feet remained firmly attached to the ground. He just didn’t seem to care about the same things we did.
When it became apparent that David refused to enter our world, Dad stopped trying. He wondered if David was stupid. He still wonders that. “What a waste,” he says.
So I no longer think of my memories at Grinders as treasures because, well, they came at the expense of my brother’s happiness. And I still don’t understand how I could have overlooked something so important. I was willing to sacrifice myself physically and perhaps emotionally to save David from Chad, but I wasn’t willing to let go of my hopes, dreams and ambitions to save him from Dad because I was too wrapped up in my plans. And recognizing David’s needs wasn’t a part of those plans.
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“Dan, you’re ten years old. It’s about time you made your mark,” Dad said to me between bites of a tuna sandwich one day. I listened attentively. David twiddled his fork. President of the United States, I thought, here it comes. “Treasurer of your school,” he said. I frowned. That was a different story.
Elections were two weeks away, and Jason, the boy with the purple pants, had already put up posters and handed out stickers and buttons. I tried to reason with Dad. “Everybody loves his pants… I’ll never win.” I said. He smiled. “None of that matters. You don’t need posters or campaign materials; you just need a great speech. Remember, rhetoric is the drug of the masses...” he said. I remembered. I had heard him say that many times before.
He and I mapped out the winning speech over the next few dinners at Grinders. We polished the final draft the night before the elections. “This is spectacular,” I said. “I’ll never lose.” Dad laughed. “You’ll be the next Eisenhower,” he said. I smiled. “The buck will stop right here,” I said. And as we left Grinders late that night, David sleepily rubbed his eyes and said, “You’ll win it Greg. I know you will.”
I left the winning speech—bells, whistles, and all—on my bedroom floor. I realized my mishap as Dad drove his car out of the elementary school parking lot. I chased after him. But he couldn’t see me, and I wasn’t fast enough to catch up. The election speeches were in thirty minutes and I was out of breath and in tears. I had failed him, I knew.
The school bell rang. I needed to be in class. But I ran to a payphone instead. Dad wouldn’t be at work, I knew, but Mom would be home. And she always understood what to do in situations like these.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It happens to the best of us. It even happened to me once. I was running for seventh grade class representative and I lost my speech… I just couldn’t find it anywhere. So I called my father just like you’re calling me now, and he helped me scribble a few words down. I didn’t win… but at least my speech was unforgettable.” I asked her what she had said.
About thirty minutes later, I stood on a podium and stared out at a packed elementary school crowd. I wasn’t at all nervous. “Hello, my name is Greg and I am running for treasurer. I’m not just going to ask you to vote for me because I’m funny and cool and smart. There are lots of other reasons, like… for one thing…um.” I stalled. “Really, there [i]are[/i] lots of reasons … or at least, some reasons.” I wiped the sweat from my forehead and pretended to look flustered. It was part of the plan, and the students were buying it. They were on the edges of their seats. They wondered if I would crack. And I did, purposefully, because there was nothing left to do. “Well…um… I guess I’m just going to ask you to vote for me because I’m funny and cool and smart.” I smiled and walked off the stage. Many of the students laughed. Some cheered. A few of the girls giggled, I think. And as I walked backstage and felt strangely pleased with my performance.
I didn’t win the election. But surprisingly it was closer than many thought it should have been. “You scared the purple out of his pants,” a friend said in reference to Jason, the winner. I knew that most of the votes for me were pity votes. But I didn’t care; votes were votes. And though I came away from that day feeling okay about my performance, I was sad that I had let Dad down. But, the next day, when I saw him again, he looked in my eyes and said, “You lost the battle, not the war. Don’t forget that.”
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| Hyperboles of the Heart |
| 04.13.04 (7:04 am) [edit] |
(I'M SORRY. THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ANYTHING ELSE I'VE WRITTEN. I'VE JUST BEEN WORKING ON IT FOR AWHILE AND DECIDED TO THROW IT IN UNTIL I GET BACK TO THE REAL STORY. ONCE I PUT UP THE NEXT CHAPTER, I'LL TAKE THIS AWAY. I HOPE, THOUGH, THAT YOU LIKE THIS
I
When I was little, I dreamed I would meet the perfect girl. She would be smart, pretty, athletic, and good in bed. But not too good, because then I'd wonder if she had had too much practice before me. I didn't care if she was Jewish (though my parents certainly did), but I knew she needed to be organized. I lived a cluttered life, and she would give me some balance. That's why I imagined she wouldn't be completely nuts. It's difficult enough to deal with one person.
And she would sleep erratically, like me. But we would keep the same erratic sleep schedule because I would want to hold her at night and because our conversations (and other pleasurable activities) would be fertile. We would talk about life, philosophy, and epistemological reality for hours into the night. And while conversing, we might even enjoy a good bottle of wine. But it couldn’t be too good, because we'd need to be frugal, especially after college, in the early years, when money would be tight.
And it wouldn’t matter because we’d be in love. She’d know it and I’d know it, and we’d be sure of it. We’d even say the words every now and then.
II
I met her in the middle of March. We kissed two weeks later. We slept together (in the same bed) a week after that. When my junior year (her sophomore year) of college ended, we had been naked together just twice.
We never did have sex. If my friends (back then) knew, they probably would have laughed. I wouldn’t have cared though. She was perfect.
Well, not quite. I mean, she wasn’t everything I ever imagined in a girl. She was ‘straight up’ about life and didn’t understand sentimentality at all. For her, two people engaged in a relationship because it worked right then, in the moment, and not necessarily anytime after that. She didn’t even believe in marriage, kids, or the unconditional kind of love. Yet, despite these shortcomings, she was still pretty close to perfect. And that was good enough for me.
III
When the summer began, she traveled to Ohio to teach the art of the trapeze at a summer camp, and I traveled to Argentina to “find myself”. We didn’t make any promises. “Relationships are rarely worth the distance,” she said. But I called her at the airport anyway. I told her that whether she liked it or not, I would miss her a lot… maybe even like somebody I loved. She said she would miss me too.
As I traveled around Argentina, I wrote to her often. And she wrote me back just as much. I imagined our letters were the kind that lovers wrote.
We returned to college in the fall. Everything was supposed to be perfect (or close to it). Sure, we had experienced a world away from each other, but I hadn't stopped feeling close to her.
I met her for coffee a day after classes began. She told me she didn’t want to be with me like that. She said, "The hyperboles in your head are different from the hyperboles in mine". I asked her what that meant. She didn’t elaborate. “If you want, though, we can still be friends,” she said.
A few weeks later, after she had refused multiple invitations for lunch, dinner, coffee, a moonlight walk… anything, she told me that even a friendship wasn't possible. “Let’s just let things fade, Barthes style,” she said. I asked her what that meant. She told me to read Lover’s Discourse.
V
When I was a little boy and I thought about “pretty”, I thought about her. I just didn’t know it yet.
We met over breakfast one morning in the university cafeteria. My girlfriend at the time introduced us. They were track teammates. “Natalie just qualified for the national championships in the 1500-meter race,” my girlfriend said. I congratulated her. She smiled politely. Then someone at the table said something about Kant and his absolutist views. A vibrant conversation ensued. I was lost. I didn’t know Kant. So I said the only thing I knew for sure: “There’s only one Absolut, and that’s vodka.” She laughed.
She wasn’t a supermodel, or even a Gap girl, but I don't prefer those types anyway. I like the natural, non-plastic kind. I imagine it’s because of my mother. Mom doesn't wear makeup or accessories and she’s prettier that way, I think.
Natalie didn’t wear make-up either. She didn’t need to. Her smile was bright, her eyes were deep, and her skin color and tone were ideal. “Coffee with milk,” she used to call it. Her hair was brown like her eyes, her frame was skinny and small, and she had no hips. “Running does that to girls,” she later told me. Her breasts (I should probably mention those) were small, but not too small. They were like everything else—just right.
VI
I didn’t see her for another week. If we hadn’t run into each other, literally, our initial meeting would have faded (maybe Barthes style?). Life would have been easier because, well, I wouldn't have known.
Natalie had had a long day. She had won another 1500-meter race (she would win them all that year), and then she rode the team bus for five hours back to school. During the drive she read The Alchemist twice to “catch the metaphors and allusions”. She was walking, exhausted, through the campus mailroom when I saw her.
I was tired too. I had played the “Beer Pentathlon” all night with my wrestling buddies (The game consists of ten drinking events; the winner retains his pride). I didn’t come close to winning, but at least afterwards, I could walk. I could think too, I thought.
Quite mindlessly (as it so happened), I bumped into her. I apologized. She laughed and told me not to worry. I asked her about the race and I wondered if she could smell the beer on my breath.
She couldn’t. At least, I didn’t think so. She said the race was fine, but that she didn’t want to talk about it. Instead (incredibly), she wanted to know how I had been.
“Your girlfriend has told me so much about you,” she said.
“I hope good things,” I replied. She smiled. We sat on a bench and started talking. The conversation was deep and, I imagined, mutually fulfilling. Though our paths in life up until that moment had been different and seemingly irreconcilable, we were (at least momentarily) moving in the same direction.
For instance, she had been studying Tolstoy. "His understanding of the dimensions of the novel and his command of language are like none other," she said. I told her that I too understood the weight of his words. In fact, I once picked up one of his books--Anna Carolina I thought it was-- and immediately, intrinsically, I felt how heavy it really was. She laughed. She said that Tolstoy would have liked my down-to-earth style. I shrugged my shoulders and agreed. That was just the beginning.
She told me she liked to read anything she could get her hands on because she wanted to better understand the intricacies and oddities of life. I told her I liked to write anything that moved me because, well, writing is in my blood. “My father is a technical writer for a computer company, and my mother is a typist for our county court.”
I felt comfortable with her, and I think she felt comfortable with me. She talked about different literary characters, and I talked about people in my life that seemed like literary characters. Our experiences, both fictional and factual, were amazingly similar.
She said that Nabakov’s prose was beautiful. "One can’t help but sympathize with Humbert Humbert … even if he is a despicable pedophile," she said. “Because his prose is too beautiful.” I told her I could relate.
"When I was a freshman in college, I kissed a fifteen year-old girl and, well, I though she was beautiful." She said I was a joker. I said she was pretty… even prettier than the fifteen-year old. Perhaps even the prettiest girl I'd even seen.
She blushed. “You don’t look too bad yourself," she said. I winked. She looked into my eyes and I looked into hers. "I need some sleep," she said. I agreed; sleep would be best. We went our separate ways.
When I got back to my dorm room, the sun was rising and my girlfriend had long since closed her eyes. I gazed down at her (she looked so peaceful), and shook my head. I slipped under the covers, held her tight, like I might hold a stuffed animal, and refused to close my eyes.
VII
When she awoke, I told her I couldn’t do it anymore. “We’re better off as friends,” I said. I wanted to let her down easily.
She agreed. She said she had been thinking of me as a friend for quite a while and that she just didn’t have the heart to tell me. I felt betrayed. Breaking up was my idea, I thought. I should get the credit.
When I called Natalie, a day later, I asked if she wanted to go on a walk with me. She said she couldn’t. "I'm trying to understand the nature and function of Faulkner’s literary misogyny,” she said. I told her there was nothing misogynist about taking a road less traveled. “You know the difference between Frost and Faulkner,” she said. I didn’t. But I wanted her to think I did. "Well maybe," I said, "But there's no difference between studying now and studying later." She agreed.
I got off the phone, changed my shirt three times, sprayed on too much cologne, and brushed my teeth too hard. Then she knocked on the door. She wore sweats, her hair was disheveled, and I couldn't have felt more enchanted.
I put my hand on my heart, dropped to my knees, and buried my face in the carpet. I was symbolically dying for her. She looked at me quizzically and asked if I was a regular Lazarus. I rose from the floor, gazed into her eyes, and promised myself I’d start reading. Then I tried to explain my actions: “I don't know," I said, "But for you, girl, I just rose from the dead.” Her eyes were tearing with laughter. I thought that was better than nothing.
She asked where we were going. I told her I didn't know. We walked outside and the sun was setting. “The orange sky and the purple mountains might just be the essence of poetry,” she said.
“Or a badly bruised pumpkin,” I reasoned. She shook her head. We walked towards the soccer field. The sun sunk below the mountaintops and the moon shone high in the sky.
She asked me about the meaning of life. I told her I wasn’t sure, but I would do my best to find out. She said, “Life is short and we should make each moment count.” And I was confused. Was life really that easy to explain? I didn't know. But I wanted her to think I did. “I agree completely,” I said.
“It’s amazing,” she said, “Our thoughts are so intimately linked.”
“Yes,” I said, “Amazing.” I pointed to a log beside the soccer field and asked her if we could sit. She questioned my intentions. “It’s the stars,” I said, “They’re beautiful.” We sat on the log. “A regular Emerson,” she said. I nodded. “That’s what they say.”
VIII
I wished, in that moment, that my parents had taught me a few rules of sexual propriety. I wanted to kiss her, and I was fairly sure she wanted to kiss me, but I was scared. I couldn’t risk being let down.
We pretended to watch the stars in the sky. Or maybe she was really watching them. But after awhile, I couldn't take it anymore. “Would it be terrible if I kissed you?” I asked.
Shooting stars blazed through the sky, and I never once bit her tongue. I didn’t even brush her teeth with mine, or make her choke. She asked me afterwards if this-- the walk, the question, the kiss-- was all planned. I didn't know what to say.
We didn’t talk about marriage or even our futures together that night. But it didn’t matter. That kiss was the essence of life… or something like that.
IX
As you already know, when I was a little boy, I thought a lot about my perfect girl. I knew exactly how she would be (if you’ve already forgotten, reread the first page). But after that first kiss with Natalie, I realized I had missed one fairly big part of the equation…sex.
I had been so hell-bent on making everything else perfect that I forgot to imagine the actual intercourse… the physical consummation of everything that’s right in our universe. What would it be like? Fast or slow? Long or short? Playful or not so much so? I had no idea!
And it wasn’t like I had never done it before. My first girlfriend liked to do it a lot. I think she liked it too. But she seemed to do all of the work. And anyway, I didn’t love her. I just, well, moaned.
Natalie was different. She was the first. And I was scared.
X
She didn't call for five days. I was sure she’d forgotten me. Or at least, she didn’t care. But finally, my telephone rang. She said she had received my messages but that her athletic and academic obligations had been overwhelming. “I haven’t had time,” she said, “But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about you. I have. And I hope maybe you could stop by some time tonight.”
I smiled. I had never imagined that my perfect girl would neglect me for five days. I had thought that to love is to love completely and to give yourself wholly and unreservedly to the other person. But right then, I realized I had been wrong. To love, I was sure, is to love whoever she might be and whatever she might do, even if it means having to wait sometimes.
When I entered her room later that night, there were magazine cutouts strewn across the floor. “Gremlins in your room again?” I asked. No. She was putting together a collage evidencing the progression of Phillip Roth’s life and work.
I looked more closely at the pictures and noticed a phallic trend. “Was he a porn star?” I asked.
She groaned. “No, but he probably thought he was. Have you read Portnoy’s Complaint?”
“I don’t need to,” I said, “My uncle’s last name is Portnoy and he complains enough.”
“You must be more cultured than you let on,” she said. I told her I thought so too.
XI
I am embarrassed to admit that I don't remember what happened next. I imagine that we discussed philosophy or maybe some recent New York Times editorials. Then, probably, we went on a walk and talked about the nature of life and love (or rather, the nature of our lives and our loves). I probably said something like, “I really do think there is such a thing as pure, unadulterated love.” She probably said something like, “No, actually, there isn’t.” Then, I’m sure, she told me to read one her hundreds of enlightening books. And by then, we would have arrived at the Moonlight Diner on Route 8. After a cup of coffee, it was probably late, certainly past midnight. And we were closer to my room than hers. That’s why we must have ended up there. Well, something like that.
We were kissing lightly on my bed when she grabbed my arm and said, “I’ve only had sex with one guy. And it hurt so badly. I could never imagine doing something like that again.” I didn’t know how to respond. I hadn’t touched her breasts, or even her butt, and already she was thinking about the consequences of sex.
“Don’t worry,” I said. She looked puzzled. I tried to elaborate. “I wouldn’t do anything you wouldn’t want to do. And besides, some guys fit better than others.” She laughed. “What are saying about yourself?” she asked. I blushed and didn’t quite know how to respond. So I kissed her. Luckily, she kissed me back. But her body trembled.
I tried to make it stop. “I’m just scared,” she said, “I don’t know how this is supposed to work.”
That's not fair. You can’t be scared. Life, you say, is about letting go, trusting the moment. And here we are. In the moment. And you’re not letting go, you’re not trusting. I want so badly to understand. But I can’t, I won’t. Because at least my feelings are reliable. I’ve always been scared. I’ve always been wrong. And I’ve never let go. But that makes sense. Because I’m me and not you.. I’m irrational. A dreamer. I live in the past and in the future, but rarely in the present. And that’s why I need you. Because you do. Because you’re not scared. Because I want to be. And you can’t take that away from me.
But she couldn’t hear me. Even if I had screamed my thoughts out loud, it wouldn’t have mattered. I know that because she once told me so. “You might make a person think differently,” she said. “But you can never make them feel, really feel, differently.”
So I held her tight. Because I didn’t want to let her go. And I kissed her. Because I didn’t know what else to do. And she kissed me back. And I touched her. And she touched me back. And I took off her shirt. And she took mine off too. Then she stopped. She looked into my eyes. “I don’t want you to think I’m some Emily Dickenson or something,” she said. I told her I never had a girlfriend named Emily, and even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t confuse the two of them. She smiled softly.
I kissed her lips, her ears, and her neck. She reciprocated. I ran my hands up and down her stomach, over her bra, and around her face. She reciprocated. After awhile, she even humped me back a little. I knew she wanted me to remove her bra. But this time I was scared.
My fingers are stubs when it comes to bras. They will not and cannot unhook even the most user-friendly ones. My first girlfriend, the one who liked sex, told me after a month that she wouldn’t let me take hers off anymore. “It’s just too dangerous,” she said. I was more relieved than embarrassed.
“Is it that difficult?” Natalie asked. I didn’t respond. She took my hands away from her bra and she slipped it off with just a finger. The air was light, her breasts were beautiful, and I imagined I was floating.
After that, I thought the sailing would be smooth. So I touched her chest (her heart)… and… I knew that was all I needed to feel. Perfect love means ignoring the Little General even when he most wants to take charge, I thought. So I held her until morning.
And when she woke up, she turned around in my arms and looked into my eyes. “Who are you?” she asked.
I thought it was a silly question. “Who do you think I am?” I replied.
“I had a feeling you’d say that,” she said. She stepped out of bed and hastily dressed.
“There’s so much to do,” she said. I asked when I might next see her. “I don’t know, I mean, I can’t know. But hopefully soon.” She smiled and left. She had forgotten to kiss me goodbye.
XII
When I was a little boy, I imagined that love, the real kind, means knowing your lover better than anyone else, knowing her inside and out… but especially inside. Because that’s where it really counts, I thought. Somewhere deep down, there’s a part of her that won’t ever change. And I have to know that part.
XIII
We were hiking through green mountains and talking philosophy again. “Life,” she said, “and motorcycle maintenance are intimately related.” I couldn’t see the connection. “If you read more,” she said, “it will make sense."
“What if that’s not what I want?" I asked.
“Why wouldn’t you want things to make sense?” she replied.
“Because nothing in my life has ever made sense, and I figure things shouldn’t have to change now."
“What hasn’t made sense?”
“It’s a long story... ”
“I’d like to hear it,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
"Your story."
"Why,"
“Do I need a reason?” she asked.
I stopped walking. We were at a clearing near the top of a mountain. The trees around us were green and brown, but the hills in the distance were purple. “I guess you don’t,” I said.
XIV
Three days later, (and to nobody’s surprise), Natalie won the 1500-meter race at the track and field national championships. I wondered, while sitting in the stands, if I could ever show that kind of grace and confidence. I didn’t think so. Some people have it, I thought, and others don’t. But I didn’t care. I was happy, at least, to cheer her on.
XV
After her Championships finished, I drove back to school and she rode the team bus. During her four-hour ride, she read On the Road twice. She said she wanted to "better understand Kerouac’s sardonic madness." When she arrived home, I told her she had been amazing. She didn’t want to hear it. “Tonight is your night," she said.
“Are you sure,” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “If not now, then when.”
I laughed because I thought I had heard that somewhere. “But what about final exams?” I asked. (We were scheduled to take our last two final exams the next morning.) She grabbed my hand and walked me to the library. It was full of frantic students. So we went to the farthest aisle on the highest floor. “Nobody ever comes here,” she whispered. We sat, facing each other, on the carpet.
“Where should I begin?” I asked.
“It doesn’t really matter,” she said, “As long as you don't forget anything."
When the lights shut off (meaning the library was closed), we pretended not to notice. When the security guard walked by, swinging his flashlight, hoping to find stragglers, we pretended not to notice too. He walked back downstairs and locked the library doors. Only then did she let me stop talking.
XVI
Her kiss was soft, her breath was hot, and her body didn’t shake. But, still, I knew, she was scared. I didn’t mind though. Love, I thought, is knowing when to slow down and when to speed up.
And somewhere in middle, she stopped completely and looked into my eyes. “If I said you could have sex with me tonight, would you?” I didn't understand why she asked.
“No,” I said, “We have all the time in the world.” And I really did mean it.
But her eyes pleaded. “Please, tell me what to do. I'll do anything. I mean it.” I knew she would have. And maybe I should have. But I didn't. I held her. I didn't ever want to let her go.
In the morning, when the library doors opened, she went one way and I went another. Our exams, which had already begun, were in two different buildings. I walked away without looking back. I didn't think I needed to.
XVII
And now I’m looking back. I know she asked me to read A Lover's Discourse because it’s a logical (if not absurd) analysis of love. And I know she defended Absolutism because it asserts that the values and laws in this world are absolute, unchangeable and completely explicable-- something she so badly wishes for. And I know Tolstoy would have liked me because I am confused, like he was. And Nabakov's prose has nothing to do with my desire for another kiss from that fifteen year-old girl. His was artwork and mine was a drunken kind of lust. And Emerson liked to sit on logs. And Frost liked nature as a metaphor. And Faulkner liked two-dimensional southern women. And Jesus helped Lazarus rise from the dead. And Philip Roth is a pervert. And Emily Dickenson spent her life looking out a window. And there actually is Zen in the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I learned this because I imagined that somewhere, in one of those books maybe, I'd understand why we're not still together.
XVIII
And if she ever reads this story, she'll probably say something like, “You’re a liar, or at the very least, a fiction writer.”
I’ll pretend not to understand. “Huh?” I'll say.
"You changed my name," she’ll reply.
"Everybody does that."
"I was on the tennis team, not the track team. And I was never any good,” she’ll say.
“That’s not how I remember it,” I’ll reply.
"Well, it's true. And anyway, you're not that funny and I'm not that smart."
“That’s how it should've been."
“And you’re just as well read as I am. You've always been.”
“Don’t fool yourself.”
"It never happened in the library.”
“It could have.”
This girl isn’t me,” she’ll plead. “She’s a fabrication, an illusion.”
“No, Natalie, it’s you.”
"Then change the story. Make it true."
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was written on high,” I’ll tell her.
"What does that mean?” she’ll ask.
“It means I can’t change it. This is how it was supposed to be."
She'll pause to think.
"Well, at least tell me how it ends?"
"Huh?" I'll ask, momentarily confused.
"The story hasn't ended yet," she’ll remind me.
“Oh that… I know."
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| Vegetarianism |
| 04.10.04 (5:36 am) [edit] |
David was seven when Chad first hit him. He crumbled to the grass holding his stomach and didn’t make a sound. He just looked at Chad’s feet and waited for him to finish. Afterwards, I ran to his side. “Are you alright,” I asked. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied.
I told Mom what had happened later that night. She was very upset. “Don’t ever hit my son again,” she said to Chad. “Don’t ever tell me what to do again,” he replied.
He spanked David the next day. David’s legs jerked and his toes curled, but he didn’t make a sound. Afterwards, he tenderly walked to his room. I walked with him. “Are you alright,” I asked. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied. And he shut the door.
For a long time, I stood outside that door listening to him cry. I was just six years old then, but I knew I couldn’t watch him hurt. It hurt me too much.
The next day, I slipped on the flowerbed in front of the house. Chad smacked me. Later, I didn’t sit up straight in my chair at the dinner table. He whacked me. And that was the beginning.
------------------------- -----------------
…I stopped eating meat towards the end of third grade. I might have done it to save the chickens or cows, or the rain forests, or the starving people in Africa… but I didn’t care about things like that back then. I was only nine and the clock to save the world wasn’t yet ticking for me. I had other things on my mind… like Mary.
Yes, I became a vegetarian because, well, Mary was a vegetarian.
Dad didn’t seem to mind. “It’s good to believe in something… anything,” he said. Mom wasn’t so happy though. “Big Daddy won’t go for it,” she said. (Chad had recently instructed the family to call him Big Daddy. We thought it was a bad joke at first, but he didn’t.)
“It’s for the environment,” I told her. “Cow farts are melting the ice caps.”
She laughed. “I can appreciate that but….” I frowned. “Okay,” she said. “I won’t pack bologna sandwiches in your lunch anymore. But you have to promise not to tell him.”
We kept the secret for five weeks. It wasn’t difficult because spent most of the time with his anorexic and bulimic clients anyway—“the tinniest of the tiny,” he’d boast. When he did arrive home, always long past dinner, he’d want quality time away from David and I. “Scram,” he’d say. So we’d go to our rooms, hold our bladders through the night, and make a beeline to the bathroom after he had left for work the next morning. We saw just as little of him during the weekends. He spent most of his free time in the garden with his “real kids” and he refused to eat with us because we were “slobs” and our eating habits made him lose his appetite. With his schedule, I imagined I could be a vegetarian forever. Then my grandparents decided to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary at a steakhouse.
It was a festive occasion. Three generations of Lewis’ gathered to honor an increasingly obsolete and thoroughly remarkable achievement: fifty years with the same…fucking… person. But I wasn’t thinking about prolific marriages or even sex between old people. I had more important things on my mind.
Chad had ordered a steak for me. He sneered when I tried to refuse it. “I won’t have little anorexic boys running around my house,” he said. I looked at Mom. She shrugged her shoulders and looked towards the ground. She looked helpless. And I felt hopeless. But I smiled and tried to pretend. I talked to my cousin Rachel who sat next to me. She had ordered pasta.
The food eventually came. I ate the potatoes and the vegetables. He watched. “Your cow isn’t getting any deader,” he said. I didn’t reply. Eventually the waitress returned and took the plates away. As the family fretted over dessert choices, he stood up and asked me to take a walk with him.
Once out of the dining room, he dragged me by the shirt collar to the coatroom When inside, he shoved the coats aside, pushed me into the wall and whispered expletives into my ear. But I didn’t listen. I was thinking about my family. They knew what he was doing yet they hadn’t tried to stop it. Nobody cared, I realized.
I tell myself now that that wasn’t the case. They did care. But they knew also that’d I’d be okay. “Greg’s too strong,” they probably said to themselves. “No one can break him. Not even Chad.”
He was still whispering in my ear. “Are you listening to me?” he asked.
“I’m a vegetarian,” I said.
“No you’re not,” he replied.
A skinny man entered the coatroom. “Yes I am,” I said.
Chad pointed at the skinny man. “Leave,” he said. The man left.
Then he punched me in the stomach. I sunk to the ground. He pulled me up. “Someone’s going to kill you one of these days,” he said. I laughed because I was sure it’d be him. He hit me again. I didn’t care. He pulled me up again. I was ready. But he opened the door and pushed me outside. “I didn’t touch you,” he said as we walked back to the table. “So don’t go crying to your mother.”
“I’m still a vegetarian,” I replied.
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| Squiggly-Lined Masterpieces |
| 04.05.04 (3:36 pm) [edit] |
[i]Someone once told me that life doesn’t really begin until the first time you fall in love. I laughed. Then I thought about Mary. [/i]
In the third grade, she and I were both in Mrs. Hanson’s class. I’m not sure if I knew her before then, but I really can’t say because I don’t remember any purposeful interaction I had before I was eight. Maybe that’s because they say life doesn’t really begin until the first time you fall in love.
Anyway, even then, Mary was perfect. She was quiet, smart and respectful, and she even had a principal role in the school’s ballet production of ‘The Nutcracker’. I’d watch her from across the room in class. I loved it when she doodled. She’d draw squiggly lines all over a sheet of notebook paper. Then she’d color in the enclosed areas with an assemblage of colors. Those drawings were masterpieces. Her technique was perfect and so was she.
Okay, okay, I was in love. But it was a different kind of love, better even. This was preadolescent love unobstructed by knowledge or experience.
Unfortunately, in those years I wasn’t as progressive or evolved as she was. Hanson was always asking me to sit back down or to stop yelling the answer out loud. Though she, like most of my teachers in those days, seemed to know I had the right intentions, she couldn’t figure out what to do with me. Back then, I figured others looked upon my outbursts with envy. I now know the truth: Mary thought I was a geek.
And who could blame her. I was only quiet when I watched her from across the room. But even then my mouth was open…. I was drooling.
I wanted her, I needed to get closer to her… but I knew it could never be.
I would have died if anyone found out. Eight-year old boys aren’t supposed to think about eight-year girls in that way. I was supposed to picking my nose, rubbing the remnants on her shirt, and winning the battle in the all-important war of boys against girls that was supposed to occupy so much of our time back then.
But I couldn’t think about buggers or anything else. I was alone and I didn’t want to be. I needed to sit next to her… her alone. But, after musing over my predicament for weeks, I concluded that it was impossible. It seemed only Mrs. Hanson could help me, and I had used up her goodwill long before with my classroom disturbances. We were destined to be separated by rows and rows of miniature table chairs.
But one morning on the playground, in a moment of pure stress and elation, I had an idea. It was an epiphany, really. In that second of realization, all things seemed to come together. Even now, many years later, I’m pretty sure that flash was as close to Nirvana or being saved or any of that shit as I’ll ever come. I knew I could make Mrs. Hanson move my seat next to Mary’s. I could practically ask for anything, and she’d give it to me… if I made a concession. At the end of class, I wrote a little note, and dropped it in my teacher’s “idea box”. The next day, without comment, she moved my seat next to Mary’s.
If you’re wondering, The note read, “I promis never to talk out in class or get up without asking permishun if you move my seet next to Marys. PEE.S. Please, for the life of god, dont tell ANYWON I wrote this. That has to be part of the deel.”
I was in bliss during class the rest of that year; and so was Mrs. Hanson. Looking back, I know that Mary never had a clue about my crush. And I can’t tell her now. That would ruin everything.
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| My Kid Sister |
| 04.05.04 (3:16 pm) [edit] |
It happened during the fifth inning of a baseball game. David and I were shoving baseball gloves into each other’s faces and Mom was eating a hotdog.
“Ouch,” she said. “Someone just kicked me.”
I turned around and looked towards the row of seats behind us. Strangely, no one was within kicking distance. I was confused but also relieved. Though I imagined my muscles were big compared to those of other eight-year olds, I knew I couldn’t defend Mom against a real adult. My eyes drifted back to the game… and my glove found its way back into David’s face.
“Oh,” she yelled. “Aggghhhh.”
“What is it Mom,” David asked.
“MOSES,” she screamed.
“Moses?” I asked.
“I’m having another one,” she replied.
Then the water broke…. all over our shoes and shelled peanuts.
Luckily, a paranoid schizophrenic offered to drive us to the hospital. His name was John the Baptist, and he had heard her scream Moses’ name out loud. He wanted the driving time to tell us the truth about God.
“He was a nice man,” Mom would say later.
“He drove like a nut,” I replied.
“He was a nut,” David reminded us.
“Well, he took good care of you two in the waiting room,” Mom said.
When David, John the Baptist and I entered the delivery room six hours later, Mom was holding a new prize. Her name was Becky and she was… so small. She barely fit in Mom’s arms.
“Is she real?” I asked.
David smacked the side of my head. “Of course she is, dumb ass.”
“Then why is she so small,” I asked.
“Because she’s a baby, dumb ass.”
Mom ignored us. “Would either of you like to hold her?” she asked.
David furiously shook his head. “Uh uh, no way. She’ll break,” he said.
I was scared I’d break her too. But it wasn’t often I had the chance to do something my brother wouldn’t or couldn’t do. I held out my arms.
“You’re ten feet away from the bed,” Mom said. “You have to come over here.” I shuffled across the hospital room until I was beside her. I again held out my arms.
“You have to open your eyes,” she said. I opened my eyes. She laughed and slowly lowered Kayla into my arms. I looked down into the little eyes that were already intensely staring upwards into my own… and I was terrified.
I knew those eyes. Fierce, deep, dark brown… they were his… his fucking eyes! My heart beat uncontrollably. I wondered who she was. I wondered what she was. I wondered how [i]he [/i]could do this to me.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I said under my breath. “WHO?”
She didn’t respond. But Mom was smiling. “You’re so good with her,” she said.
I wanted to drop her. I wanted to throw her. I wanted to do whatever I could to save us from [i]him[/i]. And I would have. I wasn’t scared at all. My eyes were fixed on hers, hers were fixed on mine, and I knew it was time. I turned towards the windows.
“Have you seen her eyes?” Mom asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Why?” I looked out the window. I saw only clear skies.
“They look just like yours,” she said.
I desperately shook my head.
“It’s true,” Chad said. I was startled. I hadn’t known he was in the room. I looked at him and back down at her. I felt his gaze. I looked deeper into her eyes to escape it. It didn’t help. I closed my eyes and tried to get away. That didn’t help either. I cringed. God please help me, I thought.
“She’s your sister,” John the Baptist said. “There’s no question about that.”
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| Developing Pictures |
| 04.05.04 (12:31 pm) [edit] |
I have a picture in my wallet of a two year-old boy wearing movie star glasses. His Mom and Dad are holding hands, his brother is awkwardly leaning on his shoulder, and he has a big smile on his face. That boy is me. I still look at that picture everyday. It helps me remember that there must have been a time when everything was happy and easy.
The photo was taken two days before Mom and Dad separated. I should have seen it coming… but I was just two at the time.
------------------------- -
Mom remarried when I was five. His name was Chad and he was brilliant. He graduated Harvard medical school first in his class. “It’s easier than you think,” he said. I think he discovered his proclivity for little women (like my mother) long before that. He told me once that he never dated any girl larger that five four, one hundred twenty pounds. He doesn’t consider bigger girls attractive, he said. That’s strange, considering his size. He is more than six feet tall and well over two hundred pounds. It seems that average-sized girls would have better suited his body type. I wondered why he never gave them a try.
He moved to Los Angeles after medical school and started a successful private practice in anorexic and bulimic psychiatry. Girls from around Hollywood and even the world came to see him (they still do). He and mom don’t say anything, but I’m pretty sure that’s how they met.
Mom tells the typical eating disorder story at cocktail parties. Once she was fat. She felt bad about it, so she made herself skinny. But she became too skinny. So her sorority sisters had to check her into a hospital. Luckily a miracle doctor saved her (she still won’t say who). Two years later she married the fucker. Now she’s five foot four, one hundred pounds, all better and married to the perfect man for fifteen years.
But he wasn’t a perfect father at all. Father? Well, he pretended to be my father. But he couldn’t fool me. I lived at my real Dad’s house three nights a week. Chad wasn’t my Dad. And anyway, we’re nothing alike. He’s a huge physical specimen and I’m a tiny little thing. He has hair all over his body and I’ve got a few specs under my arms. His mind is linear and calculating and mine is fragmented and candid. He’s successful and I’m, well… I can’t be his. There’s no way.
Growing up with Dad was difficult. In the beginning, he persistently called me his “little anorexic boy,” or “skinny bones Jake” even though I was always fairly chubby. Ironically, or perhaps not so much so, he called David his “water buffalo” or his “big fat tub of lard” even though he was extremely skinny.
I tried to figure him out. Was serious or was he joking? I couldn’t tell. So I asked Mom about the truth. She’d say, “It’s just his way of kidding around. You’re not anorexic at all.” I knew she was right. But I couldn’t seem to hear her. Apparently neither could David. Since then, we’ve both gone to great lengths to become the people he had told us we already were.
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Dad remarried when I was seven. Caron was homely, unimaginative, and not at all his type. I’m still not sure what he saw in her… and neither is he. “She was a good mother,” he says with a shrug.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have a good son. His name was Kirk, he was four months younger than I was, and he was crazy… even before his stepmother murdered his father.
That murder happened a year after he moved in with us, and it pretty much shot the marriage. The kid went berserk. He had always liked to throw metal objects at us, but his grief sharpened his aim in ways that practice could not. He ran around the house screaming and attacking David and I with hammers, door handles, or whatever else metal he could find.
Dad didn’t wait four years to turn his cards in this time. “She fucked like a nun, her thyroid problem was visibly worsening, and her son, well, he was a risk I wasn’t willing to take.”
After that second marriage, Dad knew he couldn’t endure another relationship without handcuffs. “I need my women to be pliable in both mind and body,” he says. And I don’t know how to respond when he says things like that. I never have.
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| Mom and Dad |
| 04.05.04 (5:38 am) [edit] |
Dad wasn’t very experienced when he met Mom. He blamed it on his parents. “The closest I ever came to the obligatory sex talk was hearing my father cackle about the Jezebel’s in the new Macy’s catalog,” he says.
“Them whores are everywhere these days,” my grandfather would say as he leafed through the catalog. ‘Watch out for them whores Bobby; you’ll catch diseases!”
So Dad watched and watched… and had only a few compulsory sexual experiences before he met Mom. “I lost my virginity when I was nineteen,” he says. “Well, almost. I was so scared that, uh, I couldn’t get it up.”
After that first experience, he was afraid to seal the deal for quite some time. Then he met Jane. She was a virgin but didn’t want to be. So they smoked some hash, shared some compulsory life experiences, and got down to business. “I finished the job that time,” he says. “But I could have done it much better alone. She was a mummy. I felt like I was raping her.”
Mom wasn’t nearly as sexually repressed as Dad. Some even called her promiscuous. “She loved that saddle,” Dad says. “That’s all I’ll tell you.”
“She slept with at least fifty or sixty guys before me,” he continues. “I always wondered if she thought about them when we were… you know… doing it.”
Mom and Dad married when she had just finished college and he was still in Rabbinical School. “Married life was everything I had imagined it would be…for the first forty-eight hours,” Mom says. “But then your father got weird.”
What he lacked in sexual experience, Dad evidently made up for in uninhibited imagination. And he assumed that if Mom had opened herself for so many guys she would also be open to, well… so many things. Mom was open… but not like that!
“He asked me to handcuff him, put him in the closet, lock the door, and leave him there for the day,” Mom says. “I just couldn’t do it. It was our honeymoon for god’s sake.”
Who can blame her? She had been planning that trip since she was a wee little girl. “It was supposed to be perfect. There weren’t supposed to be handcuffs…or whips, chains, rope, or any of the other things he packed in that perverted little suitcase.”
“Oy,” I say.
“That was the first sign,” she tells me.
Despite the sign, they stayed together for four years. During that time Dad refined his rabbinical craft and, naturally, his sexual imagination. Yet, though he supplicated and sermonized in earnest, Mom refused to put that metal equipment on. “I just couldn’t do it,” she says… again.
So she went out into the pastures and rode at least three different colored stallions. She didn’t need to, per say, it was just so, well, natural.
He eventually found out, and he was very upset. “How could she do such a thing?” he wondered.
“It’s easy,” she told him. “You just ride until they get tired. They always get tired… eventually.”
He was furious; he felt like strangling her. He knew, though, that violence doesn’t solve marital problems. So he did the next best thing. He went to the house of the only stallion whose name Mom divulged, and punched nails into each of the wheels of his tow truck. “I needed to vent,” he says. “That was all I could think to do.”
A few months later, they divorced. “It just wasn’t meant to be,” Mom says.
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| Demonstrable Love |
| 04.03.04 (4:12 pm) [edit] |
When David was thirteen, he ate Miracle Grow and grew eight inches. No really, he ate miracle grow and grew eight inches. And though I knew the fertilizer had worked wonders for him, I still couldn’t bring myself to swallow the stuff. And I suffered the consequences: I didn’t grow eight inches. Actually, I barely grew at all.
And though people have trouble imagining it now, we were once almost the same height and our penises once hung almost the same length. We even had similar dreams for the future: David would build Lincoln Log forts around me, and I would knock them down… until the end of time.
Back then, words like success, expectation, and damn-those-breasts-are-bi g were rarely on our minds. We thought mostly about… well, each other. We were so enchanted with ourselves that we neglected to learn any discernible language. Well, that isn’t entirely true. We developed our own language and preferred it to the more ordinary and complicated grown-up ones.
Unfortunately, when David and I finally learned traditional language etiquette—albeit a little behind schedule—our own lexicon faded away, and a piece of our childhood innocence faded with it.
But we weren’t ever [i]really[/i] innocent. Don’t let anyone try to convince you otherwise. We were two babies on the prowl. We weren’t old enough to care about girls, but we knew about trouble… and we looked for it.
When I was a year old, I chased David into his crib. He hit at full speed and cracked his head open. Then he laughed all the way to the hospital. I did to… even as a doctor sewed up his forehead. Mom didn’t think it was so funny though.
Two years later, David watched as I climbed to the top of a refrigerator and jumped off. Mom was cooking spaghetti. She didn’t see me coming. Boy did I get her… and the spaghetti. She screamed. David was rolling in the noodles before she could get to him. I followed suit. Partners in crime, an early rapport; it would only last a little longer.
On his fifth birthday, David received a set of twenty-two magic markers from Mom. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” she would later say. The next morning he and I woke up early and drew zoo animals all over his bedroom wall. As we worked, I saw a distinct resemblance between him and the elephant he was drawing. If only he had some... tusks.
I stuck two bright red crayons so far up his nostrils that we took a trip to the emergency room to get them removed. We laughed. Mom did too. “He did sort of look like an elephant,” she admitted.
Soon after the elephant incident, Mom bought us a case of chalk to replace the magic markers. “If you two want to draw,” she said. “You can draw on the sidewalk. But that’s it.” We were ecstatic. David grabbed the weaponry and we ran outside. “Let’s draw zoo animals,” he said.
I started drawing a monkey. (Admittedly, even at an early age I felt an affinity for my banana loving friends. We’re both flexible, we’re both funny, and we both like to swing on trees. What more could we need?) As I drew the monkey’s ears, he picked out a banana colored piece of chalk and twirled it in his fingers. Before I knew what was happening, he had pile-driven the chalk into my left ear. I screamed. He pointed and shouted, “A monkey, a monkey.”
He clearly wasn't very creative. I didn’t look like at all like a monkey. "It was the best I could do," he says now. “But you permanently damaged my hearing," I remind him.
David accompanied me to a year's worth of speech aftewards. But I had forgiven him long before those sessions ended. He was my big brother and I needed him to back me up, beat me up, and do the things that big brothers normally do. And that’s what he did back then… before life got hard for both of us.
When we were six, we still took baths together. I don’t know why Mom let us do it, because it wasn’t uncharacteristic of us to try to drown each other in four inches of water, or at least force inadvertent tidal waves to the floor. Yet Mom persisted. “It saved time and water,” she now argues.
Maybe it did, but it also gave David the opportunity to attack me in a way that no man should ever attack another. “Luckily, we were still boys,” he says now.
During an otherwise normal bathtub experience, David stood up, shook water from his body, and grabbed his weiner.
Before I had time to react, he pointed the doodle at me and opened fire. My jaw dropped. I watched the pee arch in the air and fall into my mouth. I couldn’t move… or even close my mouth.
But it was filling up and I didn’t know what to do. So I swallowed hard. It tasted foul, it made me shiver, and it came right back up .
I spit it back at him. Then I stood up, aimed my own pee-pee at him, and fired away. Unfortunately I wasn’t as practiced as he seemed to be. It flew in all directions. Today I tell myself that at least a few drops landed in his mouth.
But he denies it. "No way," he says. "It never happened."
"Like the rest of our childhood?" I ask him.
"Like that." And he looks away.
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